Closure
by ReadyFred-ReadyGeorge
Summary: Even the oldest of rivalries has it's limits. Part 3 of the Portrait's Series.


_Author's Note__: I'm astounded, amazed, humbled and incredibly thankful for all the love that 'Namesakes' received, I've lost count of the 'favourites' it's gotten. So this is my way of saying thank you for reading my stories so far. _

_This is set quite a bit earlier than 'Plan B' or 'Namesakes,'…come to think of it, my Portrait's series seems to be unintentionally going backwards in chronology, but anyway. Let me know what you think of this._

Closure

2nd May 1998.

The Forbidden Forest.

With the exception of a very scant and deliberately select group of people, anyone who met Severus Snape would hardly have penned him as being nostalgic. Words such as 'uptight,' 'menacing,' 'cold,' 'unfeeling,' and 'sarcastic,' had a tendency to be thrown around rather more often when the former potions master was the topic of conversation. It sometimes even amazed Severus himself just how few people could gaze beyond the armour of snide aloofness he protected his innermost thoughts with. Not even the Dark Lord himself could gaze into his mind, and see anything bar what Severus wanted him to see. The strongest defence, he'd always reminded himself, is the one the attacker never knows is defending.

That mantra had bought him every breath he'd taken since Harry Potter had found himself in Little Hangleton three years ago.

Every breath since the Dark Lord had returned.

They'd all been borrowed, those breaths, those heartbeats. He'd known that from the beginning, known that one day, he'd have to pay the price. It had never shown on his face, but beneath his skin, beneath his emotional armour, he was relieved.

Soon, it would be over.

Soon, he wouldn't have to pretend anymore.

He could feel destiny prodding him forwards even as he stood, still as one of the many trees in the clearing he found himself in, the same destiny that even now, was urging Harry Potter in an altogether different direction, as he searched for that last, elusive Horcrux somewhere up in the castle. That last piece in the puzzle. Destiny would give Potter the limelight and would, in all likelihood forget all about his silent, grudging, painstaking, but eternally diligent guardianship. But he would follow destiny's compass all the same.

Yet a single, solitary voice in the back of Snape's head whispered _'Just once could not hurt.'_ Even though the rest of his conciousness was devoting itself to quietly preparing himself for the events to come within the next hour, meditating and ruminating on just how the sacrifice of his particular pawn might enable the final checkmate. Steeling himself for this moment required every ounce of his concentration and fortitude, but still that naysaying whisper begged him to give into nostalgia just once, to let his barriers down, here, where not even the Dark Lord, whose mind would be safely bent on the Potter boy and too distracted to poke around in his head at his moment of weakness.

Slowly, calmly, and accompanied by a furtive glance over his shoulder, he reached a pale, spindly hand into the folds of his dark robes.

The painting was tiny, barely a hand-span in size, but its contents had been rendered in loving detail. The blank back of the tiny canvas was the first element of it that crossed Snape's vision as he sat back against an ancient willow tree that was thankfully more docile than a certain of its cousins elsewhere on the grounds. A few tiny scratchings almost two decades old handwriting were the only disturbances on the otherwise serenely blank paper.

_Dear Prongs_

_Figured you and Lily would fancy some kind of housewarming present to help you settle in._

_I've sent a couple of these with all of us in to Moony and Wormtail as well, figured we could all use something to brighten our days, though I know the two of you are going to have a certain little parcel soon to really liven things up, wink wink._

_My love to Lily for somehow putting up with your idiotic self on top of the morning sickness, and to 'the bump', who we all hope and pray looks just like his mother even though we all know he'll be cursed to be the spitting image of you._

_All the best, always._

_Padfoot._

_P.S: Remember those 20 Galleons you bet me that I couldn't paint? Cough up. Oh and the Chudley Cannons lost again, so that's another 10._

The banter had been dry on the page for nearly nineteen years by the time Snape had found it tucked into a frame in 12 Grimmauld Place during the last summer, yet Sirius Black's jovial insults towards his best friend resounded in his head as though the shaggy-haired rebel were sitting next to him right now. Despite himself, he felt a moment's remorse for the departed animagus: After all, much as they had unapologetically hated each other, they had been on the same side, shared in the plans of the Order of the Phoenix, plotted the resistance against the Dark Lord all whilst firing verbal abuse at each other across Sirius' dining room table.

The moment of reflection did not last though, as Severus mentally waved it away. He did not allow himself this moment of introspection to mourn Sirius Black.

Turning over the canvas hesitantly and with a building sense of trepidation, the first thought that crossed his mind was that he owed Black at least one compliment; he had been a private, but very talented artist. The brushwork was reverently done, the shades and hues almost came alive even without the bewitchment that gave the portrait's occupants sentience. It was a tiny masterwork, the sort of talent that only comes forth when one invests themselves and their love utterly into their work. Despite himself, Severus was impressed.

The next thing that crossed his mind however soured his mood rather considerably; the portrait, which usually held two occupants, at present was home to only one; a tall man whose visage had been captured in his early twenties; glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, waistcoat immaculate yet shirt un-tucked as if to capture both his wealth and utter lack of effort in his appearance, hair askew in the same unruly fashion he'd coined in his school days, as though he'd just gotten off a broomstick after a particularly hectic Quidditch match, lips cocked into a grin that made Severus' stomach churn.

'Nineteen years and you still haven't washed your hair, impressive and revolting in equal measure Snivellus.'

'Potter,' Snape spat, fighting the urge to shove the painting back into his robe where his old rival couldn't patronise him further. He needed serenity tonight, not to be chided by the man who'd managed to be everything Snape wasn't.

'No really, I'm impressed. Though I confess myself surprised you haven't started using the grease to stick it into different styles. I'd sell my left arm to see you with a Mohawk.'

'I would have thought being made into art would have matured you a tad Potter,' Snape fired back, voice taut with loathing.

'That's the thing with portraits, you want to capture the person exactly as they were,' James replied airily, with a flourish of his hands, before theatrically counting his qualities off on his fingers, 'Devilishly handsome, check. Suave and sophisticated, check, am I forgetting anything?'

'Borderline god-complex?' Snape ventured with a sneer.

'That's the one,' James replied with a smile and a bow that would have reached his toes had they been included in the portrait.

With a snarl of irritation, Snape darted his hand back inside his cloak with a mental note to never allow himself such a foolish foray into nostalgia again, but just before he could shove James Potter and his artfully rendered smirk out of sight and mind, the deceased man's voice sounded out again, but with all its usual touches of arrogance gone.

'Severus wait!'

The tone of voice caught Snape off-guard, he had always been convinced that James Potter had a voice created solely for the purpose of annoying people, and until the day his old rival had died, he had never heard that voice offer any evidence to the contrary, yet here it was; the same voice that had once bragged about how it's owner could take Severus' pants off in mid-air, was now pleadingly sincere in its bid for his attention.

Deciding he would take just one more chance that night, Severus returned the picture to his line-of sight, taking in a surprisingly thankful look from it's occupant.

'What is it?' Just because he was affording James Potter his attention didn't mean he was going to be happy about it.

'I just wanted to say,' James began, before drawing in a deep breath, as though sincerity was taking a thorough toll on him, 'thank you, for taking care of my son.'

Snape looked away, partly to reassure himself that he was still alone, and partly because for the first time in his life, the normally icily stoic spy could not look James Potter in the eye.

'I know you didn't do it for me,' James continued, by way of trying to make Snape less uncomfortable, 'Or even for Harry himself, but he's alive because of you, and I'm thankful for that. I didn't get to see him grow up, but I'm glad that he had someone so devoted watching over him, no matter how begrudgingly.'

'You're right,' began Severus, finding his feet in the conversation the only way he knew how, the cold hard truth, 'I didn't do it for you, or for him. Why would I feel any devotion to a boy who's every bit the mediocre, slacking, glory-hogging troublemaker his father was?'

'Dumbledore's kept me very well appraised on Harry's penchant for trouble, since he took this painting from our House,' interrupted James with a smile 'and Sirius said as much when Dumbledore returned it to him. Harry's his dad's boy.'

Severus merely grunted before continuing.

'I did it for _her_, make no mistake Potter, I was not devoted to anyone or anything else beyond her memoryand after tonight, I will owe neither of you anything.'

An awkward, unfamiliar silence erupted between the two men, one flesh-and-blood, one ink-and-paper as each worked out what to say next. Something to put some finality on the conversation and rob Severus of the nagging thought that something was missing from this moment of terse honesty.

'Let's face it, we're never going to like each other.' Said James with a surprisingly friendly tone despite his words. 'And, arrogant though it may be, I still find the memory of you dangling by your ankles in mid-air to be hilarious.' James cocked one sketched eyebrow as if to say _and so does everyone else,_ but Snape bit back a retort, now was not the time for the petulance of their childhood. 'But my son got to grow up, and for that, I will always owe you.'

Snape nodded once, acknowledging the rare moment of respect as he slid the painting back into his robes. The greasy-haired man's eyes darted upwards, where the tall towers of Hogwarts were visible above the treeline. The flames of battle were no longer illuminating it, as they had done so before, the temporary ceasefire having dropped a blanket of serenity over the ancient castle, though Severus quickly mused that it was more a veil of silent grief than anything else.

A quiet, almost imperceptible cough broke Severus reverie, and he brought his gaze to earth in time to see a very dishevelled, vampiric-looking death eater shuffling towards him, eyes gaunt, face devoid of colour, his normally elegant silvery-blonde hair hanging limp and unruly around his shoulders. Severus thought that if ever there was a personification for the phrase, 'How the mighty have fallen,' it was the terrified wretch that had chosen this moment to interrupt him.

'You're looking a tad off-colour Lucius.' Droned Snape, his usual monotone dripping with sarcasm as he seamlessly stepped back into his armour of sarcasm now that his privacy had run its course.

'The D-D-D…Dark Lord, requests your p-p-p-p,' Lucius stammered, his haughty voice reduced to a perpetually terrified whimper.

'presence?' Severus ventured slowly, drawing the word out and rolling it off his tongue as though he was teaching a toddler basic phonetics. Severus cocked an eyebrow in the general direction of his downtrodden comrade. The irony that he had effectively copied the expression of his most loathed rival from a minute before, was not lost on Severus, though he silently quelled the thought before it could dream of showing itself.

'Do not mock me!' Malfoy spat, though his voice carried all the intimidating qualities of a newborn kitten having a temper tantrum.

'Oh, I'm quivering in my boots, simply quivering.' Came the reply as Snape rose to his feet, and dusted himself off. He fixed Lucius with a pointed stare. 'Where does the Dark Lord await me?'

The utterance of Voldemort's title drained what little colour had risen in Lucius' sallow cheeks and he darted his eyes downwards. 'The S-S-Shrieking Shack,' he mumbled, turning on his heel, clearly desperate to be well shot of both their dark master, or indeed, any mention of him.

Severus watched Lucius' retreating back for a few paces as he mentally gathered himself together. This was it. This was the moment that nearly two decades of preparation had been building up to.

He was walking into his own grave, and he knew it. But he was not afraid. He'd been marching towards his tombstone with the grim resolution of the reaper itself since Voldemort had appeared in Godric's Hollow just over sixteen years ago.

He was about to follow Lucius, when something stalled his feet. A voice. The barest, tiniest whisper, resonating out of the folds of his cloak, he had to strain to hear it. But it stopped him all the same. It was a woman's voice, and to Severus Snape, it was sweeter than the most melodious of music.

'Thank you Sev.'

And with a tiny spring in his step that went mercifully unnoticed by Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape began his last march towards destiny.

_Author's Note__: Thank you for reading. I was going to do some gushy AN post here, but I can't think of anything, so all I'll say is: please review :) And let me know if you want another one _

_By the way, for anybody who's read the 'Star Wars The Old Republic' fics '_Us Against The Galaxy,'_ and _'Legacy of the Shadow Born,'_ by 'song-of-myself35990', I am currently writing a companion piece to 'Legacy' entitled 'The Bachelor War.' This was entirely done with the author's permission (and her constant support since I'm always badgering her to beta test each bit I write) and I hope to finish it soon, as now, due to moving to University, I have less excuses to procrastinate, besides the legitimate one of actually doing work. Watch this space _

_Much love to you all._

_Go Hufflepuff_

_RFRG_


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